


The Queen's Gambit

by flammablehat



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bed Trick, Chess Metaphors, Dark fic, Dubious Consent, F/M, Magical Disguise, Major Character Injury, Possibly Unrequited Love, Revenge, Team Gluttony, There's A Tag For That, implied major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:14:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammablehat/pseuds/flammablehat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Battles, like chess, were often decided by the strategic manipulation of pawns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queen's Gambit

**Author's Note:**

> So I just posted my chess-metaphor pthon fic from this year and it reminded me I'd never posted my chess-metaphor fic from yesteryear. So now I'm doing that. I actually have a lot of unposted pthon fics I need to slowly add here. For the few of you following my account, hi, hello, sorry for the spam. I'll try to keep it reasonably paced and not annoying. 
> 
> This was written for the villains challenge of pornathon year 2, if I remember correctly. My very first winning entry, aww. If I had it betaed back then, I've completely forgotten who helped me out with it and I am sorry. It could probably use some sprucing up now, tbqh, but for those of you who know me...yeah. ^_^

Battles, like chess, were often decided by the strategic manipulation of pawns.

It took all of Morgause's not inconsiderable skill bent to the preservation of Morgana's life for her to realise, with grim clarity, that she may have played her hand too soon. 

A tiny stoneware pot sat on the floor near Morgana's nest of furs. Abandoned beside it was a sponge, sticky with honey and extract of milk thistle. Morgause turned from her consideration of Morgana, her shallow breathing and waxy skin, to face the sky outside her barren tower.

The tide of a fight could be turned so easily on the appropriate axis of pressure. She would not strike false again.

+

The boy was utterly transparent. She marveled only that she had not recognised his devotion sooner.

It was a simple thing to convince him that her form was Arthur's, her smiles were Arthur's, that her passion — shoving him onto Arthur's bed and climbing onto his cock — was Arthur's.

The heart believed what it willed.

She rode him slowly, her fingers trailing the sensitive stretch of her skin around his prick. The dense fan of his lashes shivered, mouth twisted in a mask of suppressed emotion which his hands betrayed, trembling and reverent at her hips. When the bell-tower took up its clangorous call, she rocked with its rhythm, fingers dancing at the seam of their bodies.

And though Merlin could only see and feel Arthur, Arthur suffered from no illusion when he walked in on them moments later — staring first, unbelieving, at Merlin before meeting her eyes.

Morgause turned her gaze away, back to Merlin's pleading, flushed face, unconcerned. She slipped the fingers of one hand into his mouth, muffling the prince's name on his tongue, while the other worked between her legs until her head tipped back and her eyes drifted shut.

+

Of course Merlin could never explain the truth: that he hadn't known he'd bedded the sorceress who had exposed the secret of Arthur's birth; the witch who had stolen the Lady Morgana from them all.

How could he tell his liege, who looked upon him with iron in his eyes like a man slowly persuaded to exchange words like _misunderstanding_ for _betrayal_ , that the body he’d held and the lips he’d kissed had been Arthur’s own?

Uther called for a pyre, but the prince forestalled him.

Hope bloomed in Merlin’s wide eyes until Arthur slowly unbuckled the gauntlet from his right forearm and threw it at his feet.

+

The air over the tourney grounds was ambivalent. Those from the lower town who attended came with the customary good humour of fairgoers, while the few court members who watched were tense and unsmiling, invisible fault-lines of loyalty like spider web cracks in porcelain marring their grace.

Merlin, in armour and holding a sword, looked like a broken reed beside Arthur.

The fight began without preamble. Any lingering cheer in the air evaporated when it became clear that, even against such an outclassed opponent, Arthur was not holding back. He thrust, easily landing inside Merlin’s defenses every time, but the blows were humiliating: slices in place of gouges, like a cat toying with a terrified bird. 

Merlin looked as though he was trying to speak with Arthur, his face earnest even from a distance, but the breeze carried his words out of hearing.

Then Arthur scored a mark down Merlin’s face, sending him stumbling back in shock. The wind died, the air suddenly dry and crackling with energy. Merlin dropped his sword.

He landed three blows like thunderclaps, laying Arthur out faster than seemed humanly possible. 

While the people were busy catching their collective breath, Arthur rallied, abandoning his own sword to tackle Merlin into the retaining wall. And though it was clear Merlin’s strikes had the force of ten men behind them ( _magic_ , a shockwave of understanding rolling through the crowd), he was no fighter. 

Whatever restraint Arthur had been exercising broke upon a wave of blows so crushing the nearest observers could hear Merlin’s ribs crack beneath his armour. 

Silence greeted this abrupt victory. Merlin sagged against the wall, too still; Arthur leant sweat-drenched above him, chest heaving. They slumped near enough to each other that one imagined Arthur could taste the blood beginning to pool in Merlin’s mouth. 

For a moment it looked as though Arthur might brush the purpling ridge of Merlin’s cheek. But the moment passed.

+

Morgause eyed her board. She tipped the white bishop and palmed his king. 


End file.
